The last night of October
is one of crickets,
loud and soft, blending
with a yellow gray sky,
a chill wind rising,
while down the street
children in costume
parade from house to house.
But ours is dark.
A door slams.
My wife's thin face,
distorted with hate,
breath stinking of gin,
that shy pretty girl
I took to the altar
so many years ago,
out she goes to the car.
(about the brakes -
I'd fixed them just for her)
She revs it up, and charges
into the rush of passing traffic,
a shriek of tires, a scream --
headlights on broken glass,
an asphalt mirror.
When I hear the sirens,
I light the candle in
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